


A Guardian Demon

by EdnaV



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Denial of Feelings, Feminist Themes, Historical References, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Victorian Attitudes, the wall scene was not harmed in the writing of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 10:10:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20329426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV
Summary: Crowley could have recognised those blonde curls anywhere. The fact that said curls were in close proximity of the dessert buffet just confirmed that they belonged to a certain angel.----1835. Crowley crashes the most exclusive party in London to keep a promise to an old friend.Aziraphale is there, and he'd rather not help a demon. But maybe he should.





	A Guardian Demon

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm still angry at self-righteous Victorian Aziraphale in St. James's Park, 1862, and a bit angry at self-righteous Book Aziraphale too.
> 
> Thanks to my betas @emandrea and @BurliForti!

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

**Human Beings**

Ada Augusta Byron (later Countess Ada Lovelace). First person to imagine a machine to calculate anything in the world, not just numbers. Unfortunately, she had an idea, but not a computer.

Charles Babbage. Tried to build the greatest calculating machine in the world, but his ego got in the way. One of many reasons why Ada had that idea, and the reason why she didn't have a computer.

Mary Somerville. Total badass scientist, total badass woman in general, and Ada's mentor.

Charles Dickens. Writer of more than two novels.

Michael Faraday. Son of a blacksmith. Later bookbinder. Later discoverer of electromagnetism and other natural phenomena. Judging from his portrait, very handsome.

**Supernatural Beings**

Aziraphale, a Principality and book dealer. Actually in love with Crowley.

Crowley, a demon who likes human beings. Actually in love with Aziraphale.

* * *

_1 Dorset Street, Marylebone, London. 5th of June, 1833._

Crowley could have recognised those blonde curls anywhere. The fact that said curls were in close proximity of the dessert buffet just confirmed that they belonged to a certain angel.

_Not tonight_, he said to himself. _I'm too busy for jokes about_ ‘thwarting my evil wiles’._ I have to keep an eye on _her_, and the angel can go to — Heaven, or wherever._

_Not tonight. And maybe not tomorrow either_, thought Crowley. Aziraphale's company was becoming less pleasant by the day. Somehow, this century was turning the lovely fool who had got himself _accidentally_ imprisoned in the Bastille because of some crêpes into a rigid little soldier of Heaven.

While Crowley was busy wondering whether a society based on strict etiquette codes could affect the soul of an angel, the soldier of Heaven caught him by surprise.

“Mr. Crowley. How do you do?”

“What brings you here, _Mr. Fell_?” he said, grinning more than smiling. “I thought that you were more inclined to spend your evenings in a quiet bookshop than at parties.”

“If you must know, it was Mr. Faraday who convinced me to come. We used to be quite close. I taught him how to read — he says that he owes me his success in the natural sciences, but I am sure he would have done quite well for himself anyway, he's a brilliant young man. Have you seen him, by any chance? A bit shy, always dressed very properly, brown hair — quite easy on the eye too...”

A tiny part of Crowley's brain was taken over by the thought ‘_don't grab the fucking angel by the lapels of his jacket and pin him against the wall’_. Actually, the aforementioned part was not so tiny. It was big enough that Crowley's brain didn't have enough space to wonder where the Heaven that thought was coming from.

“I think he just left,” he growled.

Aziraphale looked away for a moment, as if he had been overcome by a sudden shyness, then he looked back at Crowley and simply said, “Oh, what a shame.”

Crowley tried not to think about lapels and walls. He looked around, scrutinising every person in the room, still unable to find the young woman with dark hair he was looking for.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale had moved on to his duty as Principality stationed on Earth, and he had started questioning him. “And how come you are here? You never struck me as too fond of... intellectuals,” he said, even more smug than usual. “Although our host, Mr. Babbage, is said to be the most brilliant mind of our time, with his ideas for _calculating machines_ and whatnot. And, in this respect, as in many others, I must warn you: should you be inclined to use his inventions to the detriment of...”

Crowley couldn't bear to listen to one more word. “If you must know, angel, I made a promise to a friend.”

“Are demons bound to keep promises?”

“Are humans _actually_ bound to keep promises, angel?”

“That is quite different. Free will...”

“Spare me. I didn't even have an invite. I had to bribe a scullery maid to get in here. Two crowns, that's a month of her salary. Actually, if you could make a small miracle so that I don't get recognised and she doesn't get the boot...”

Aziraphale decided to let go.

Angels are not supposed to be_ curious._ They are supposed to uphold the_ status quo_, and curiosity can be a major hindrance to that. But almost sixty centuries among humans had turned Aziraphale into a very curious angel, in more ways than one. Curious enough that he almost didn't realise that he was asking a question.

“Who is the... _friend_?”

Crowley sighed. “Do you remember George Byron?”

“I do. Indeed. A — shall we say? — _passionate_ man.”

Lapels and walls flashed once more through Crowley's mind. This time the dessert buffet was involved too.

“Well, it's his daughter. Ada. He asked me to look after her.”

“_Look after her?_ And, pray tell, how would you do that?”

Crowley didn't want to give out the details of his plans, especially not to Aziraphale, and _especially_ not when Aziraphale was treating him with such contempt. He deflected. “You think that I could have... less than honourable intentions.”

“You _are_ a demon,” the angel reminded him, not for the first time in the past five millennia — actually, not for the first time in the past month.

“He asked me to protect her.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “She's popular at Court. She's engaged to a respectable man, after that... incident with her shorthand tutor. And when she called at my bookshop a few weeks ago, she convinced me to part with a beautiful edition of Euclid's _Elements_, so I'm sure she's a lady who can take care of herself.”

Crowley frowned. “She has an _imagination_, angel. You know what happens to women who have an imagination in this blasted century, don't you? Or in any century, for that matter.”

“Well, my dear, you do have a wonderful imagination, and you often...”

“Precisely.” Crowley didn't like to discuss the matter, but he thought that maybe he could've instilled a healthy little doubt in the angel's mind. “There's a reason — among many — why I choose to look like a man in here, and it's because I like to be valued more than a little dancing doll. And you know it. And don't pretend for a moment that you think that's fair.”

Aziraphale didn't think that it was fair, but he had spent almost sixty centuries telling himself that it wasn't his place to right the wrongs of the world. And Gabriel had recently commended him on his hard work, which had felt like a very auspicious start of the new century — together with the opening of his little bookshop, of course. And he wasn't in the mood for a debate — he wanted to go back to those desserts before someone took the last _petit chou_. But Crowley was clearly furious, almost to the point of making a scene. He tried to show him some sympathy.

“Well, I concede that people _do_ have a tendency to underestimate whoever they perceive to be a woman; and when God gifted this person with great imagination, they seem to be... _scared_ of them, yes, I think that _scared_ is the right word. And I admit that, at times, this leads to the waste of talent that could make the world a better place, if not to downright cruelty, which seems quite hard to reconcile with Her Ineffable Plan...”

“Cut it,” said Crowley, livid. “And stay out of my way.”

“Only if you promise not to involve Miss Byron in any scandal,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley felt like he was about to explode. “What makes you think that I would feel _bound to keep my promise_?”

“The Arrangement.”

It was an unimpeachable argument. _The_ unimpeachable argument. Most of what they had done in the past eighteen centuries had been done because of the Arrangement. Aziraphale kept telling himself that the Arrangement was just a ruse to keep the demon on his toes, while Crowley tried every day not to ask himself why he had come up with the blasted idea in the first place: but that charade had become their life.

“Fine, _I promise_,” said Crowley with all the sarcasm he could muster. He recited a list as if he were chanting a children's rhyme. “I'll keep her out of trouble, I'll allow her just a few witty remarks at dinner, some minor interactions with brilliant people, not even a footnote in history.”

Aziraphale nodded, smiling politely. “Thank you very much, my dear,” he said. “But, speaking of her interactions with people... isn't your _protegé_ the young lady over there? Because it looks like she's trying to outdrink Mrs. Somerville.”

Crowley was torn between panic and pride. “I think she's just trying to get herself drunk. Either nerves, or boredom. More likely the second. Her father's daughter.”

The angel batted his eyelids and casually pointed out, “Either way, it could cause _a scandal_, don't you think?”

Crowley's glare almost melted the dark lenses of his glasses. “I'm on it, angel,” he said, already turning his back to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, finally free from his duties, started to move in the direction of the desserts. The crême caramel next to the petit choux looked absolutely delicious. The spoons were almost within his reach, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” said a man's voice. “Mr... Fell, isn't it?”

Aziraphale turned around, only to find himself staring at the host: Mr. Babbage, the most brilliant mind in England. In the world. As snob as they come, of course. One couldn't expect otherwise.

“It is,” he replied. “Azira Fell.”

“Peculiar name,” stated Mr. Babbage, smiling.

“A very old one.” Aziraphale felt like he was drawing too much attention to himself, and tried to move on to pleasant platitudes. “Such a wonderful evening...”

Mr. Babbage didn't lose his smile, nor his curiosity. “You came here with Mr. Faraday, didn't you?” he asked. “I have never seen you before. What did you say your trade was? Historian?”

“Purveyor of rare books.”

“Interesting.”

_Not interesting at all_, Aziraphale mentally translated_. So why is he asking?_

“And is the gentleman over there your... associate?”

_Crowley. Oh, Lord. That's what he actually wanted to know._

While Aziraphale had failed to reach that last petit chou, Crowley had finally managed to make his way through a sea of crinolines, and he was monopolising the attention of a charming young lady. She was still steady on her feet despite holding what looked like her fifth or tenth glass of champagne.

_He's keeping her sober_, Aziraphale realised._ He's a... nice demon, or a good approximation of it_.

Mr. Babbage's smile was becoming more inquisitive. He had to come up with a plan: he had to whisk Crowley away, and he couldn't leave the young woman alone with her boredom.

_Two of us, Supernatural Beings. Two of them, humans._

He smiled back. “Just a casual acquaintance. But that lady... Oh, one can't help wishing to know her better. The last time we met, she had the most _fascinating_ ideas about flying machines and — oh, I believe that you'd love to hear all about it — machines being your main field of interest, of course — unless you already had the chance to discuss the matter with her...”

_I've hit the mark._

Mr. Babbage tried to look _blasé_, but he was clearly very interested. “Actually, I've never met her. Mrs. Sommerville asked me to invite her. But it sounds like she's truly a charming lady.”

“Let's go meet her, then,” said Aziraphale, positively beaming.

Crowley had had to wade through the crowd. Mr. Babbage glided over an ocean of smiles and nods with Aziraphale in tow. They reached Crowley, who was telling Miss Byron a story about her father, so eagerly that he almost didn't acknowledge them.

The angel discreetly kicked the demon in the shin. _Smile and get out, don't ask questions, now_, he muttered under his breath. With a swift movement, he interposed himself between Crowley and the lady, and diverted her attention on their host.

“Miss Byron, this is Mr. Babbage. Mr. Babbage, this is Miss Byron.”

“How do you do,” the humans said, exactly at the same time.

Miss Byron barely suppressed a laugh.

“I hope I'm not too forward,” said Aziraphale. “But I can't help thinking that the two of you have something in common.”

“We're both at this party?” she joked.

_Oh, Lord. Help me. A quip about the host. A lady like this needs to be protected from herself, indeed. It's a good endeavour, even if it was started by that demon._

“That too, Miss,” said Aziraphale. “I was thinking about your passion for machines. I don't know much about it, I can only guess that, for instance, that combination of gears that I see over there...”

Miss Byron cut in. “That's the... Difference Engine, isn't it?” She wasn't looking at the angel. Or at anyone, really. She was completely focused on the peculiar mechanism. “Logarithmic tables. Method of differences, isn't it? It's brilliant, I must say. Would you like to show me your machine, Mr. Babbage?”

_Please, Lord. Not a scandal._

But Mr. Babbage seemed to have forgotten everyone in the room too. He had led Miss Byron to his invention, and he was pointing out some clever mechanism whose significance was lost on Aziraphale — but clearly not on the young woman, who was excitedly debating a possible extension to _any mutual relation of two or more things_, or something like that.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley. “Well, all's well that ends well. He was about to ask about your invitation, or lack thereof. But I think he's found something else to occupy his mind.”

“Thank you very much,” said Crowley, slightly mellowing.

“Your _protegé_ really is... a curious person, indeed. As is our host, of course. I hope that something good will come out of their meeting,” he coyly remarked.

Crowley stared at him. “It was a _curious_ night altogether,” he said. His voice was so cold that it could've frozen Hell twice over. “I spent most of it _protecting people_. I'm a demon, you know — well, you do know, you remind me of it quite often. Perhaps I should remind you that you're a Principality, though. Didn't She make _you_ to protect the humans? Or maybe you're regretting that business with the flaming sword too. I don't know. I'm not sure I care.”

And with that, he was gone.

For a moment, Aziraphale felt unbearably guilty. He tried to tell himself, _Well, he's a demon. You can't trust him_.

He resolved to spend the rest of his evening thoroughly tasting all the desserts, but he was approached by a young journalist who had very passionate views about the horror of workhouses.

The angel thought of his nice, comfortable, little bookshop. He thought of Mr. Faraday who almost hadn't learned how to read because people think that a blacksmith's son doesn't need books. He thought of a scullery maid losing her job for a few pennies.

He looked around the room. Mr. Babbage was showing his model of calculating machine to Miss Byron. She had a beautiful light in her eyes, and she was talking with a passion that reminded him of her father. He saw a lady snickering at — no, not at the two of them: _just at her_.

He thought of Crowley in his favourite dress, and of Crowley's words about _protecting_ the humans. All of them.

He felt ashamed of Gabriel's commendation.

The journalist was saying that stories can change people's hearts more than any opinion piece. When Aziraphale suggested him to write a novel, or two, he replied that he'd consider the idea.

Eventually, Aziraphale excused himself. He looked for Crowley, but he could not find him. _He must have left. I hope that our next meeting will be more pleasant._

Crowley hadn't left. He had just decided to fix his foul mood by outdrinking Mrs. Somerville. He didn't succeed.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started as 800 words of trivia about Victorian scientists, inspired by the steampunk comic _The Thrilling Adventures of Lovelace and Babbage_ by Sydney Padua. I don't know if it's better this way.
> 
> Comments make me smile like an angel at the Ritz.


End file.
